


A Deal's a Deal

by aaa_mazing



Category: QAF USA
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaa_mazing/pseuds/aaa_mazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian knows that his pain in the ass is Justin. And his buttplug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Deal's a Deal

You don’t even want to think of how you ended up moving like a firewalker in front of the ad boards in the conference room of Kinnetik full of clients, with an impressive hard on and a buttplug, sitting comfortably in your close-to-virgin ass. The bottomline is you are a victim of your own stupidity.

You try not to move too much, but the client is new, the account is worth a couple of millions, and an immobile statue of CEO would hardly be convincing enough. So you are revealing Brian Kinney’s brilliant strategy of the new campaign, feeling like an unwelcomed guest in your own pants.

The fact that a certain Art Director is following your every move with a stare of his blues doesn’t contribute to the coolness of the room and even less so of your body. He is x-raying you, making you tremble under your own skin. And he fucking glows!

You can bet your ass – ah, the long suffering ass – that your clients think you are high. Or plain inadequate. Because how can a man who sighs, and winces every second minute, who won’t bend a fraction of an inch even if only to pick up a pen from the table, not be mentally challenged?

The only thing that helps your cock not to tear through the fabric of your pants and wave its “Hi” to the audience, is  that the ad is of women’s underwear. You try to think about sex with women, and the V-word that Emmett would whisper with his eyes rolled and the expression of utter disgust on his face is better than a cold shower.

You put another banner on the stand. Women or not, you have to admit that the whole campaign is plain perfect. Which reminds you of what a mature professional your partner has become. And what a stupid little twat he still is. He dared you to take up on the ad. You teased him he would ‘never ever do anything like this.’ You should have known better, he’s an artist, even if it comes to lace lingerie.

You lost the bet. He dared you to spend twelve hours with HIS favorite toy in YOUR favorite – well, next to favorite – ass. But a deal is a deal, so here you are, a perfect ad man in a flawless Armani suit, in your own prosperous advertising agency, with a baby blue – why the hell does this artist think that a buttplug should match his eyes? – device stretching your gorgeous ass.

You hear the air conditioner buzzing. But it’s still hot here. Way too hot. And something tells you the heat has little to do with the temperature of the room, and a lot with the temperature of the blood circulating your veins. Although, as horny as you are, you start thinking it’s not blood. It’s come. It’s your fucking come, running through your body and finding NO way out. You want to come. Desperately. You need to come, for Christ’s sake! Every single cell in your body is on fire. You know the exact number of your nerve endings because you feel each and every one.

You move so that the lower part of your body is behind your desk. Your hand moves south on its own accord. You try to readjust your cock. You curse your haute couture pants for being so tight, your cock for being so responsive, the pictures in your head for being so vivid, the sun for shining, the earth for spinning.

The meeting is endless. Time creeps, then stops, then creeps again.

After everything is finally over – thank to all existing Gods, - you drag Justin to the closest room which happen to be a service room. Whatever. You can’t care less right now.

You grab his hand and place it over a considerable bulge at the front of your pants. “Touch me.” You hate how begging you sound but still go on. “Do something!”

“Something? Low demands?”

“No demands!” You growl admittedly. “Just. Do. Something. Fucking anything!”

Justin palms your crotch, cups your cock through the fabric. He pushes you flat against the wall, sticks his leg between yours; the movement that makes the pressure on your hard on unbearable, more than a human creature – not mentioning a gay, horny human creature - can survive.

You close your eyes, bucking your hips in his hand, feeling warm, and dizzy, and all kinds of awesome. It’s divine. You think you hear music.

You are sure you hear music.

“Oops. Sorry.” Suddenly the hand is away, its owner not looking sorry at all, fishing the source of the music out of his pocket. “They need me in the Art Department. Work caaals.” He singsongs making a helpless gesture.

With that – and a smile that suspiciously resembles a smirk – he leaves you. Just like that, with your cock throbbing, your mind boiling, your whole body aching. You gather all your will power to stop yourself from jerking off right here and now. Kinnetik will laugh their collective ass off would they know that the CEO was caught getting himself off in a service room.

You are not sure how the rest of the working day passes. You only know that it’s already over. You wait for Justin, hovering at the door of your office, picking at the handle of your case, like a teenager before the first date. You don’t know anything about teenagers and even less about dates, but the awkward feeling doesn’t leave nevertheless.

You have Justin on his knees and your pants down as soon as the loft door is shut.

He takes you in; your fingers find Justin’s on your hip. A sound escapes your lips, low and desperate, and you curse yourself for being too loud today. Then you manage to make your dry lips – of course they are dry, all your body fluids are down there – utter a single ‘Justin’.

Justin lifts his eyes, his mouth close but not on your dick anymore. You feel abandoned and even more desperate. His eyebrows rise in a silent ‘What?’

You can’t play this game anymore. Just can’t, because you are a burning mess ready to explode. And you grab a fistful of his hair, jerk his head up, and growl, “Fuck! Just fucking fuck me!”

Justin licks his lips, the move which almost does it for you, and smiles. Fucking laughs! “What a nice choice of words! Ever the romantic.”

You never knew there were so many sounds in your arsenal till this day: you groan. Out of frustration or horniness, you are not sure. But you hope it does sound like a warning to him.

Justin is smart enough – no matter how much you doubt it now – not to push his luck.

He leads you to the bedroom, and then he fucks you. But first his fingers sooth the tender and swollen flesh of your rim; then his tongue follows. When the damned toy is out, you feel empty. But when Justin takes its place, you stop thinking because mental activity – as well as breathing, it seems, - is far from the top things in your priorities list. You writhe, you moan, you burn, you come. In an ashamingly  short space of nanoseconds, but Justin never minds, because you let him do this again, good and long.

And you both call in sick next morning, which is probably as stupid and obvious as to get caught jerking off in a service room, but you can’t care less.

A deal’s a deal.

 


End file.
